


Infallible Minds

by Green_Problem



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Canon Related, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Other, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Slow Burn, Somewhat. They're not quite enemies; the two just don't really like each other at first., Teamwork, Touch-Starved, Trust Issues, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-14
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-12 01:27:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28752138
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Green_Problem/pseuds/Green_Problem
Summary: Skill is not something Edward Nygma lacks, but all his best efforts end up facing defeat at the hands of Batman. Consistently feeling belittled by the vigilante, Edward dreams of concocting a plan so brilliant, no one will be able to stand in his way.Regardless, he is stuck at Arkham- again. Inexplicably however, this time he begins to form an odd-friendship with the previous head-physician of the asylum, professor Johnathan Crane, who has become the most recent addition to the loony bin. Doom may be nearing Gotham city, as this pair of criminal masterminds allies forces.Diving a little further into the general contents, this is a plot-heavy fic that isn't set in any particular canon. Love between two villains and many evil schemes along the way. Excited to publish new chapters, there will be weekly updates (hopefully). Read your hearts away. :^)!
Relationships: Jonathan Crane/Edward Nygma, scriddler - Relationship
Comments: 38
Kudos: 43





	1. The Chase

Gotham is not a city meant for romantic get-togethers at the cinema followed by fancy dinners where the gentleman offers to pay the check for the night. It never was so, not when it was still being built nor now, in modern times. Still, public opinion is divided on whether this somber megalopolis was ever a safe place to live- There are some who believe Gotham is only bad now, that there were times of greatness and light when the city was prospering, its influence shaping the world around us. Such people may be inclined to point to the heyday of Park Row as an example of decay, referencing its time as one of Gotham’s most glamourous streets, but no amount of industrial and commercial growth could have saved the famous street from its grimy fate. That’s just how things _go_.

Park Row is no more.

There’s only Crime Alley now, a monolithic reminder of what Gotham always cycles back to. Corruption, impoverishment, crime and suffering. Law has no bearing in such a place, no constitution to assess how you should be leading your life, and so, logically, that’s exactly where you want to find yourself when you’re running from jurisdiction.

Edward Nygma knows this, of course. Knows that if he manages to reach the alley in time, he’ll be able to disappear into its complex disarray of abandoned houses the same as a whisper in the wind, never to be heard from again until he so chooses. And that’s really the only thing on his mind as he hurries through the East End. On any other occasion, his brain would be buzzing with all sorts of intriguing ideas, witty remarks and, as per design, riddles. But, for now, he has to focus.

Until he’s able to safely retreat into one of his hideouts he must continue carefully analyzing the mapping of the city, identifying each turn he has to take to reach his destination along with every shortcut he’ll be able to go through without risking capture. This task, on its own, is not particularly hard. Gotham is to Ed a puzzle he has long solved, from the little dark corners in deserted backstreets to the intricate underground maze that makes up the city’s sewage system, he has committed it all to memory.

But Gotham was never the _real_ problem. No, of course not. The actual problem is currently 10 stories above Ed’s head, jumping from roof to roof, trying to catch up to his pace. And that’s none other than Batman himself, sworn vigilante of the city.

Edward was certain there weren’t enough words in the English language to accurately describe how much he hated to feel the dark knight’s gaze stationed at the back of his neck. It was like being prey to a vicious predator- as soon as he felt his eyes on him, he knew he had to run for his life. He didn’t appreciate the lack of control over the situation, nor to be left with no option but withdrawal. 

At his current speed, Ed could reach Crime Alley in about 8 minutes. It really wasn’t that far off, just two blocks away, but that still gave Batman plenty of time to find a way to corner him. There was a narrow little street approaching he _could_ cut through, the fence at its end had a gap just wide enough for him to slide through. Were he to do it quickly, the Alley would be just 4 minutes away, but it was also a little too risky, and he’d rather not gamble his luck. Chance is not _his_ gimmick, after all.

Unfortunately for the Riddler, the already very few options he had were quickly torn to pieces as he heard Batman’s grapple gun cut through the air above him, echoing against the avenue’s rickety houses with voracious force. The vigilante was gaining on him, and Edward knew it wouldn’t take long until he found an opportunity to pin him to the ground and take him back to that dreaded Asylum.

“Goddamn show-off!” Groaned Edward through gritted teeth, “This chase isn’t fair!”

Fair or not, the situation wasn’t going to change, so he had to make his move now. With the soles of his polished Oxford shoes tapping desperately against the concrete pavement, the rogue took a sharp turn into a dark street and kept on running. His shoes, he thought, were not made for this type of predicament.

The man had first stumbled upon this ill-lit street as a young teen. As fate would have it, he’d also been running then- not from some odd-costumed hero but, rather, from a group of older schoolboys. Silly as it may sound now, it too was an unfair chase. Their heights and strength easily overpowered his gawky little figure, who could often pass for younger than was actually the case. He ran into this street as a last resort, looking for somewhere to hide. Instead, he found an opening he could leap through, something that could quickly put him a safe distance away from his assailants.

Gotham had changed a lot since those days, and so had Ed. The changes time brought were not so much intrinsic as they were superficial, things that had been building up for a long time but which were yet to surface. There was a bubble that was bound to burst and, when it finally did, it triggered a colossal domino effect. Of the very few things that remained untouched throughout that time, this fence was oddly one of them. Edward had Bruce Wayne partially to thank for this, since he had sought to preserve Crime Alley and all of its surrounding areas.

And preserved it was, with the same decrepit walls and crumbling buildings of all those years ago, only getting worse with each passing day. This progressive deterioration was so jarring, the Riddler couldn’t help but be slightly distracted by the smell of rot that surrounded him as he prepared to jump through the small gap. This smell, although familiar, was abidingly sickening.

Edward found that both his head and right arm went through just fine, however, as he began to slide his torso across, a sharp pain made him let out a loud whimper. The hole was much too small to be crossed carelessly and, in his rush, the green-suited man let a honed wire edge slash the upper half of his left arm. The stinging was bad, though far from the worst he had faced. Still, he didn’t have time to stop and wallow in pain, so he continued wiggling his way through the gap until his body toppled down to the other side.

“What do you call a small wound?” A question inadvertently escaped his lips the second he got up from the ground, a gloved hand now squeezing around the lesion. His eyes glanced at it for just a second, examining the damage, seeing the purple of his glove slowly turn to red, “A short-cut.”

Just after he muttered the answer to his own riddle, he set off running again. Ed would never admit it, but he felt a little disappointed no one had been there to hear that.

There was no sign of Batman for now, just an uneasy sense of quietness accompanied by the moonlight, which illuminated the streets better than any of the worn out lampposts. The sky was void of stars, as usual. Urbanites expect to see stars on TV, not shining in the night sky. You’d have to be in the Bristol Township area before you could see a difference, near the homes of every major corporate mogul and hedonistic celebrity Gotham has to offer.

Edward had once wanted to be part of the elite, to receive the attention he both needed and _deserved_. His intellect finally recognized by the broader public and all the people who once doubted him proved wrong. Now, he saw through their corrupted schemes, the way they built empires exploiting the efforts of people like himself. So he realized he had been above the system all along.

If the dark knight quit meddling in his schemes, he knew he could achieve much more.

Eventually, he would. One day, he’d manage to beat Batman, concoct a plan so brilliant all of the vigilante’s sleazy tricks would be rendered useless… But that day was yet to come.

Tonight, he would be lucky to make it to Crime Alley, and luckier to treat his injury before it got infected. He was really close, just one more minute running and he’d be at the alley, but it doesn’t take a genius to realize this was _too_ easy. Batman had just seemingly vanished and the GCPD was yet to make an appearance. There was more to this, they’d never let him off without a struggle.

He paused.

At last, he had put two and two together, but it was already too late. There must have been no more than a 20-foot difference between the Riddler and the alley then. His eyes continued to stare blankly ahead as an aching feeling began spreading across his tired body, “Ah,” he breathed. It would take some time until he forgave himself for playing into such an obvious trap.

Slowly, he began moving forward. He could hear his heartbeat better than his own footsteps, “I get it,” Edward announced, “I am flora, not fauna-”

The sound of several guns being cocked back walled him, “I am foliage, not trees,” he put his arms up as best as he could, though his wounded limb struggled to stay balanced in the air, “I am shrubbery, not grass…”

Dozens of figures emerged from the shadows, all wearing those dark blue suits he found so distasteful, “What am I?” With that, he kneeled down. He had been so busy running from Batman, that he completely forgot about the police.

“Am bush,” came a rather dry response from behind him.

Ed glanced up at the caped vigilante with disdain as he walked towards him, “Hmf,” the captured criminal huffed, “Yes, that’s correct.”

This time, he actually wished there was no one to hear his riddle.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 is done with! Apologies for stealing the "Am bush" riddle from Young Justice, I just thought it was fitting.  
> Until the next chapter is here, if you enjoyed this one please leave a comment! Genuinely appreciate all sorts of feedback, they keep me motivated, so if you have the time- I'd love to hear your thoughts. Help finding typos is also always cherished. :-)
> 
> 'Til next time, I'll be leaving you guys with my other social media, where I also post art and whatnot, feel free to message me there!  
> ____  
> Tumblr: ed-nygma  
> Instagram: Green__Problem (art)  
> Instagram: riddler.r (spam/friends, peeks of future chapters will be posted there. The account is private but I accept most friend requests)


	2. Arkham

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After getting caught, the Riddler is taken in for questioning and subsequently to Arkham Asylum. Ready to finally get some sleep, Edward doesn't resit when being taken to his cell. Knowing that he'll start planning his escape first thing in the morning, he is not in much of a rush for the night. Humorously, he finds that the enclosure opposite to his own now belongs to no other than Jonathan Crane, who has recently become an inmate following a major scandal... Although the man doesn't seem much of a chatter. Maybe he'll open up more with time.

“Why did you break into GothCorp’s Newtown laboratory?” Officer Montoya snapped, she had been interviewing the Riddler for well over an hour, but was yet to pry any information out of him “What were you looking for?”

“This again?” Edward rolled his eyes, “You’ve already asked me that,” he sounded offended- as if being confronted with the same question twice was insulting.

Montoya let out a long sigh, she was massaging her temples without even noticing, “Wouldn’t have to repeat myself if you’d just answer the damn question,” her patience was wearing thin. The Department didn’t have much time left until they were forced to return the world’s biggest riddle-obsessed-criminal to Arkham. In fact, the transport vehicle was already waiting outside.

“I _did_ answer you,” he banged one of his feet against the side of the table, “And you didn’t even bother to think about it!” The criminal gestured to the officer’s notebook with his head, where she had written down his response.

“You gave me a _riddle_ ,” she tore the page out of her book and slammed it down, “I want _real_ answers.”

A smug look spread through Ed’s face, “Why?” He tilted his head to the side, “Is that one too tough?”

“It’s _nonsense_ ,” Montoya retorted. The remark was enough to make the Riddler drop the smile, which, in turn, amused her. Seeing his reaction, she decided to press further on it, “You _know_ it’s nonsense.”

“It’s _not_ ,” he quickly asserted, “I don’t speak _nonsense_ . And it’s not _my_ fault you lack the brain capacity to solve something as simple as that,” Edward was irritated now. He was giving the inspector his best menacing look, though he was far from intimidating.

“Fine,” the young woman grabbed the piece of paper and stood up, “It’s about time we got you back to the asylum anyway.”

Silence fell upon the interrogation room until she opened the door, “Oh, and officer?” Called the detained rogue.

“What is it, Nygma?”

“Why shouldn’t you tell your secrets to pigs?” Edward couldn’t resist any longer, he was grinning from ear to ear, the man had been holding back on this one for the whole day. Montoya, on the other hand, didn’t care to know the answer- in fact, she didn’t want to hear another word coming from his mouth, so she shut the door as soon as she realized he had nothing of value to add, “Because they’re squealers!” The Riddler shouted. He might not have been able to see her reaction, but he was content with the knowledge she had at least heard it.

“You tried your best,” An older man approached Montoya outside the room, he was carrying two cups of coffee, “He’s always like this,” he admitted. The man handed one of the cups to the young officer.

“Thanks, Jim,” she took a sip out of her drink. Despite still being warm, it was obvious it had been poured a while ago, “I thought I may be able to get him to speak… He’s got some nerve.”

“Yeah,” the Commissioner scratched his mustache, “What bothers me is that the Riddler is better known for petty thievery; antiques, collectibles, relics… _That_ is what he goes after. What did he want from a lab?”

“Who knows?” the woman blew some hair away from her face, “Whatever it was, all he gave us to work with is a riddle.”

“Of course,” Gordon fought the urge to roll his eyes, “What is it this time?”

“ _Which GothCorp room must always be kept at 212ºF_?”

\---

A revoltingly foul smell tortured Edward’s nose as he was taken from the GCPD Headquarters back to Arkham Asylum. He was wondering when might have been the last time the transport van was cleaned, and suspected the answer to be well over a year ago. Most inmates didn’t, admittedly, have the best hygiene, and even though he was usually lucky enough to be carried in an empty vehicle, he simply couldn’t escape their disgusting odor.

It didn’t help that he couldn’t even cover his nose since he had to wear a straitjacket the whole way through- a _special_ kind, nonetheless. He had learned his way around the normal ones, so now they just gave him a type with stricter security. There was pride in the notion that he was so smart Arkham staff had no option but to take harsher measures when transporting him, but said pride didn’t outweigh his desperate need to stop letting this diseased air through his nostrils.

Opposite to him was a set of worn-out benches, these were noticeably sticky on the surface. One wouldn’t even have to touch them to know, since as soon as light hit the seats their slimy textures were immediately highlighted. On the floor, dried blood stains that nobody had bothered to wash away. Glued to the legs of the benches rested several collections of aging chewing gum, which Edward suspected belonged to the staff rather than the inmates. Repulsive wasn’t enough to describe it.

“Riddle me this! What is it that smells most at the back of this van?” He leaned his head back and grimaced, “My poor nose!” But no amount of moaning or complaining would make them stop the vehicle for him. Hell, he could be having a heart attack and they’d just keep on driving. 

Luckily, the asylum wasn’t too far off. Edward made his hatred for Arkham no secret, but at least his usual cell, as depressingly gray as it was, didn’t smell like decomposing meat. The trip between Old Gotham, where the police headquarters were located, and the outskirts of the city was roughly 40 minutes long. It could easily surpass the 60-minute-mark during rush hours, but that wasn’t the case for today.

It had been 24 hours since his capture, time which he spent under GCPD custody. For most of it, he had to wait for them to complete some legal paperwork and to come up with a strategy on how to get him to speak. He was initially interrogated by detective Harvey Bullock, who tried to get information out of him using meaningless threats. Then, Jason Bard wanted to get a taste of him. He asked better, smarter questions than Bullock did, but still got little useful data. Lastly, he was supposed to be questioned by Arnold Flass, but the man never showed up. This was likely because Edward knew of the bribes Flass took, and Flass still had enough of a brain to know the rogue could easily use this against him. They tried to contact Hardback Bock to fill in for him, but he was too busy. That was when the department threw Renee Montoya into the mix- some newly recruited officer.

She was clever, but time wasn’t on her side, eventually allowing her temper to get the best of her at the end. Still, no young officer is ever asked to inquire rogues, so she must be well trusted by the Commissioner. Maybe she could have gotten a few extra hints if they hadn’t put that Harvey buffoon first.

But, in the end, it is what it is. And what it is, is a whole day wasted. A day Edward could have spent scheming another genius plan or coming up with great new riddles. Worse yet, he wasn’t able to get an ounce of sleep, so he was forced to stay conscious through every single moment of this lousy day. If there was something he could look forward to at the asylum was a night of sleep. Perhaps not a _good_ night of sleep, but it would be enough. 

And, just as the thought popped in his head, the van came to a stop. It didn’t take long for a guard to open the vehicles’ doors, “Get up,” he ordered.

“With pleasure,” the Riddler retorted. He quickly stuck his head outside the vehicle and took a moment to breathe in the fresh air, allowing a cold night breeze to fill his lungs, “You _need_ to clean this dump. The smell is unbearable back here.”

“Wouldn’t need to keep bearing that smell if you’d just stop running off, huh, Mr. Nygma?” Aaron Cash, the asylum’s most trusted security guard, came to greet the re-captured criminal, “Learned any new riddles while you were gone?”

Edward was about to scoff back at Aaron when the other guard pulled him down from the van, grabbing him by his hurt arm in the process, “Ow-ow-ow!” the man cried, “Careful, you imbecile!”

Despite the loud protesting, a scowl was enough to quiet Ed down. Of course he still wanted to voice his discontentment, but he _knew_ what the underpaid staff was capable of doing and getting away with when annoyed, “Come on, let’s get you inside.”

While being walked to the entrance by the same guard, he watched as Aaron waved away at him. That man’s causality bothered him, made him feel disrespected and demeaned, but he knew the only inmate he feared was Croc. The brute had taken his arm in one gory fight during a riot. If viciously biting a limb out of him was what it took for Aaron to show a rogue some respect, then Edward would settle for impertinence. 

Two new guards then came to meet him, while the other one turned back around and returned to the van. The rogue took one last look up at the sky, it must have been well past 1 in the morning at that point. The darkness that enveloped the night was as proverbial as ever, to the point it became comforting. Afterwards, he looked forward, analyzing every inch of the asylum’s lobby. That had remained equally as unsightly as when he last visited… But something _did_ change while he was gone, the door that led to the basement was sealed off.

Ed didn’t have enough time to process that piece of information though, since, next thing he knew, he was being pushed into the elevator. It smelled an awful lot like disinfectant, but that wasn’t unsavory in the least. With a click of a button, they were on their way to the rogues wing, and then he noticed the button to the basement had also been removed from the elevator’s interface. His eyes widened slightly as he remembered the most recent scandal Arkham had been involved in, one that went down after he had already escaped. _The head physician’s fear experiments_.

“So, is no one allowed down there anymore?” Genuine curiosity provoked the question, but he was met with silence, “ _So_?”

“Not ‘til cops say otherwise,” one of them spoke without making eye contact. The criminal nodded in response. Most guards would probably have told him to shut it, but this one mustn’t have wanted to deal with Edward’s incessant whining.

Professor Crane’s situation, on its own, didn’t come as much of a shock. Few were the things in Gotham capable of surprising the Riddler anymore- but he was still caught a little off guard. Not by the revelation that the professor had been performing experiments on inmates though. Most higher ups at Arkham had similar agendas, dark secrets hidden behind thin curtains. The lot of them were just waiting for opportunities; some had even already taken them. No, the surprise came from the _extent_ of said experiments. The fact he was only caught because he decided to expand _beyond_ the asylum, to haunt the streets with his endeavors. Rarely did you see this much dedication.

At any rate, he still landed himself in an Arkham cell, the same as the other “criminally insane” patients he seemed to assist. The irony writes itself.

Inevitable. The moment Crane decided to involve the broader public in his schemes was the same he signed up to be caught. Batman has many great foes, recognizable faces Edward saw while being walked to his own enclosure, but the vigilante remained undefeated.

These top-level criminals included names such as Two-Face, whose cell was always perfectly divided into two halves of very dissimilar aesthetics, Mr. Freeze, whose accommodations were kept on a lower floor of the building with freezing temperatures due to his peculiar condition, Poison Ivy, who Edward noticed had opened her eyes to check who was arriving (and frowning after the fact), the Joker, whose absence from the asylum made Ed let out a sigh of relief and, of course, the Riddler himself, currently having his straitjacket removed upon entering his temporary quarter.

His cell had, much to his annoyance, been cleaned of all papers once plastered on the walls, most of which containing Edward’s _brilliant_ riddles and manifestos. Whoever removed them had no appreciation for his craft, he thought. They were probably too dense to understand it anyway.

But he could start working on remodeling his room in the morning. Right now, he wanted to get some sleep.

So he approached the sink, intending to remove his lenses and go straight to bed. One of the few privileges he had at Arkham that wouldn’t be allowed in Blackgate was his use of contacts. Truth be told, he wore glasses for most of his life, but eventually outgrew that style once he assumed his rogue persona.

“Hey, hey!” He quickly shouted out, trying to catch the attention of the guards before they got to the elevator, “You forgot to give me a contacts case! And solution!”

“The sector manager will have to review your permissions before handing that to you,” one of them turned back and replied, “In the morning.”

“In the morning? I’ve been wearing this pair for over 24 hours! Do you know what that can do to my corneas? I need to get them off!” He complained.

“Just take them off and put them by the sink or something,” the worker shrugged.

“That’s worse! They’ll dry out and shrivel up! In the best case scenario, they won’t break, but will still be full of bacteria.”

“Ask for a new pair then,” the man continued walking, “Nothing I can do about it.”

Edward punched his cell’s see-through door, and had to pretend really hard to not have hurt himself in the process. He flailed his hand around a little before glancing at the enclosure opposite to his own. Not the dimmest of light was on, but he could still make out the silhouette of the inmate. The figure was sitting in bed, not asleep. His eyes glanced at the label, “Jonathan Crane.” _Great_.

“What are you looking at?” He couldn’t actually tell if the ex-professor was looking at him, but simply assumed so.

The sinister figure offered no answers, and remained unmoved. Such lack of acknowledgement made the Riddler mumble something unintelligible, likely with the intention of offence. On any other day, he would have gladly continued fishing for a response, but he was too tired to do deal with yet another nuisance.

After circling around in his cell for a minute, eventually deciding _not_ to remove his lenses. If he took them off for the night, they most likely wouldn’t be salvageable by the next day, and God knows how long staff would take to get him a new pair. He didn’t want to risk dealing with blurry vision for days, so setting them by the sink overnight was just not an option. Instead, the man chose to crawl into bed and just stare at the ceiling. He should _really_ consider switching over to extended wear contacts.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well then, I must admit I'm very happy with all the positive feedback I received from the first chapter! Hope you guys enjoyed this one too, though something that's bothering me is if the final scene, where Edward is complaining about his contact lenses, felt too unnecessary. I'm not sure if I should have found an alternative to it, so please tell me how that reads so I know whether I should avoid tangents like that next time.
> 
> Now, for anyone curious, you can try to solve the riddle Ed gave Montoya- it's solvable without plot context! Your support and opinions do mean the world to me and help me shape the plot better, so please tell me how you felt about this new addition to the story!
> 
> ____  
> Tumblr: ed-nygma  
> Instagram: Green__Problem (art)  
> Instagram: riddler.r (spam/friends, peeks of future chapters will be posted there. The account is private but I accept most friend requests)


	3. The First Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Professor Crane can't deal with the Riddler anymore, and he's been at Arkham for less than a night. Eventually, he snaps.  
> Strangely enough, his attempt at quieting the man turns into a conversation. The two don't get along.

Arkham Asylum was enveloped by thick wall of silence. The night’s winds couldn’t muster enough force to rattle windows, or to escape into the building and echo ominously through the corridors. None of the facility’s patients were wailing others awake either, most were completely sound asleep. It was a perfectly calm time, a rare occurrence at the asylum, ideal to get some shut-eye.

Edward Nygma, however, had been stolen of this option, left fiddling with his hands with little to stimulate his mind. He was bored, and he hated being bored. He was entirely certain no more than an hour had gone by since he first stepped foot into his cell, so it couldn't be long past 2 then. If he was to assume things were to happen as homogeneously as ever, the sector manager should probably arrive at 6, meaning he still had to wait some dreadful 4 hours until being able to do anything about this major inconvenience.

His room had been emptied of his belongings, leaving him with nothing to entertain himself during such a tedious time, not even a loose piece of paper. After much tossing, he decided to sit up rather than continue to stare aimlessly at the ceiling in the darkness of his room. One of his hands ran through his hair as he straightened his back, noticing it was too greasy for his liking. The past few days had been a mess, so he had to sacrifice part of his self-care routine. Ed let his feet down, a shiver running through him as they reached the cold, hard floor. Barely any light came through the cell's puny little window, and the little that was able to slip through was easily obscured by the bars that stood on the other side of the glass. Thankfully, reading lights were now included in Arkham rooms- after enough patients hurt themselves while trying to take a leak in the middle of the night.

With a simple click, it was was on. At least now he could _see_ the walls he had been staring at.

Something else ended up catching his attention though. As he glanced at the cell opposite to his, he noticed the same unmoved silhouette that had been there as he arrived, “Do you not sleep?” He muttered abruptly. The question was rhetorical, of course, more of a jab than anything else.

But yet again, the man stood still. It was a rather unnerving sight, even if Edward wouldn’t state it out loud. Did Jonathan Crane sleep upright? It wouldn’t be the most unusual thing one could witness at the asylum, but _still_. Maybe it added a layer to the whole _Scarecrow_ persona, he thought, though it would be a weird detail.

“What is dark but made by light?” The Riddler got closer to the see-through door as he spoke, this time making an effort to be heard. Despite not expecting an answer, he waited a few seconds before providing the answer, “A shadow.”

For a moment, the hallway fell back into a state of quietness. Ed had lost all hopes of getting a reaction out of the asylum's newest inmate when, finally, a response cut through the silent air, “Do you ever shut up?” This voice, although quiet, was noticeably nasal and deep. 

It felt a little funny. Edward had seen the man’s face many times (both throughout the asylum and, more recently, on the news), but he had never heard him speak. The voice was oddly fitting though, sounding exactly the same as he’d expect, “So you _can_ hear me.”

“Hear you is all I’ve been doing for the past hour,” the shadowed figure grunted, “You’ve been here for less than a night and I’ve already counted _12_ riddles.”

One of Edward’s eyebrows rose up; it was true that in his boredom-induced exasperation the man had been telling himself riddles, but he hadn’t simply blared them out either, “Oh, and what do you care? Was _I_ keeping you up? You didn’t seem too keen on sleeping when I arrived either.”

“Did I ever claim you were disturbing my sleep?” the bed beneath Jonathan creaked as he suddenly got up, allowing for his silhouette to now reveal a long, thin shape, “I can appreciate silence without my goal being to doze off.”

 _Appreciate silence?_ Amusing, considering silence was definitely the last thing _Scarecrow_ was appreciating when his fear gas broke loose in Gotham University. Or even just the experiments he had conducted in Arkham; Edward doubted those were anywhere close to quiet too, “Didn’t take you for much of a peace enthusiast.”

“And?” Crane’s monotonousness contrasted the other's more alluring tone of voice; the pair’s expressions were near opposites, “Doubt your judgment of my character holds any weight. What do _you_ know about me that stands to reason?” Truth be said, few were the people who knew the extent of Jonathan’s story. No matter how much the Riddler was sure he had this man figured out, the puzzle that made up his psyche was still missing many pieces.

“Don’t underestimate my knowledge, _professor_ ,” the title was stressed in a snide tone, almost as if he was trying to get a reaction out of the figure in the cell opposite to his own.

“Don’t _overestimate_ it, then,” Jonathan quickly scoffed back. Of course, he was fully aware that comment would be received with indignation, and he welcomed it. Frankly, he didn’t want to entertain the other rogue's childish games, nor did he feel pity for needling at the rogue’s thin-skin.

A wry expression filled Ed’s face, visible thanks to the dim light that lit his room. Crane’s image, on the other hand, remained concealed through layers of darkness. Unreachable, _unperceivable_. This only fuelled the tension between the men, especially on Ed’s end. It felt threatening to not be able to read someone’s body language, to lack the option of analyzing them and scope out their thoughts and feelings. And worse, to have his own face exposed, seen by his opponent and able of being scrutinized.

“Well? Are you going to enlighten me?” Jonathan cut through his thoughts like a swift bullet, making it clear he wasn’t willing to wait for a response, “What do you know that the news didn’t tell? Even if you collected every piece published by Gotham Times or accessed the police’s database- you still wouldn’t know the half of it.” There was caution to the words he spoke, they came without haste but still in a rather assertive manner.

Ed couldn’t help but chuckle at the mere suggestion of such a thing, “Collect newspaper articles? For what purpose? You’re not that interesting,” this was an honest statement. Crane and his fear schemes may have shown commitment but, as a whole, his shtick seemed unremarkable when compared to the many other criminal personalities Gotham had witnessed over the years, “But I don’t need to read a memoir to untangle your character profile.”

“ _Please_ ,” croaked the other man while stepping closer to the glass door. It was still difficult to make out his form, but his round glasses reflected some of Edward’s cell’s light back. Crane’s eyebrows peeked behind the frames, raised upwards, “Don’t make me laugh.”

“Laugh? Are you capable of that?” Ed tilted his head to the side. He decided to change subjects rather than wait for an answer, “Want to hear a riddle?”

“No.”

“Too bad,” he wasn’t sure why he even bothered to ask, being fully aware of what most people’s reaction to that question was, “Why don’t scarecrows ever have any fun?”

An audible sigh escaped Jonathan’s lips. Admittedly, he was a little baffled at how Edward’s obsession made him be able to effectively pose riddles that fit each and every situation. He raised a hand up and massaged his forehead, “What is it?” Though highly literate, Jonathan Crane never found much excitement in riddles. He knew the answer to the more recognizable ones, but didn’t bother to extend his knowledge any further than that.

“So, you’re not even going to try?” Edward felt a little disappointed, knowing the ex-professor was clearly not just some mindless sap. It was much more entertaining to tease well-learned men than random fools.

“I have no reason to feed the obsessions of an eccentric crank,” he quickly established.

Ed took a step back, “ _Eccentric crank_? Well, will you look who’s talking!” he was no longer bothering to speak in mellow tones, “Last I checked I wasn’t the one whose fixation on fear cost him a job as a university professor. Nor did I get thrown into the very own asylum I was a head-physician at after putting a sack over my head and trying to murder some ex-colleagues.”

“You don’t know anything!” Crane hissed in exchange, “My experiments were going to advance science, they were _important_. Indispensable for progress. But I shouldn’t expect _you_ to understand. You’re just some poseur trying to convince others of being this great intellectual, but you’re not as clever as you wish, and the way people perceive you won't change that. You have no real ambitions, no purpose aside from public recognition. Your dependence on riddles and brainteasers comes from a need for validation that your ego can’t provide you with and, because of that, you’re not worth academic appraisal.”

Most of that rant was entirely dismissed by his counterpart, who had no interest in being psychoanalyzed by some grouch this late at night. An urge to ask him how he figured driving people to insanity would be of any use for science crossed his mind, but he knew the ex-professor would have some self-imposed justification, “Then, _surely_ , you’ll have no trouble solving my riddle?” the man crossed his arms, “Tell you what, if you guess the answer I won’t direct you another word, no riddling, no nothing.”

The offer was tempting. Jonathan had nothing to lose in trying, and he figured it couldn’t be that hard. Riddles are, after all, mere wordplay. They were popular among kids; it’s not rocket science. So, the shadowed figure took a moment to think, “Because no-one likes a strawman?”

“Oh, not bad,” the Riddler’s lips curled into a pompous grin, “That’s not the answer, but I’ll give you points for creativity.”

“Hmf,” Jonathan rolled his eyes, immediately regretting to have indulged the egomaniac, “I really don’t care about your juvenile endeavors.”

That comment would have typically incited a bad reaction, but the man was feeling much too prideful to take offense, “The answer is: _because they’ve got a stick up their ass_.”

Crane responded only with a look of disgust.

“Will you two shut up?!” came a shriek from a cell further away, it was Ivy’s voice. She’d been painstakingly trying to sleep through the men’s discussion, but to no avail. One may even argue they had been lucky to not get yelled at sooner, considering the woman’s reputation.

Crane instinctively looked to the side, letting his gaze follow in the direction from which the voice had come from, even though her cell was too far away for him to see it. He looked back at Edward for a moment, but quickly reared back into bed. This time, he actually laid in it. Soon, he noticed the dim light from the Riddler’s cell being turned off. What a pest. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now, the traditional answer to that riddle is actually "because they're stuffed-shirts" but this one was so much more fitting- credit to my friend Pix, who gave me that beautiful response when I riddled her on the same question. Oddly enough, I found that this riddle is a little scarce online, only really finding mention of it in two riddle books I own, so I guess it's a lesser known query. 
> 
> Scarecrow gets a little more focus in this chapter (finally), I had a lot of fun writing the two's interactions. Light inspiration taken from Detective Comics Vol 2 23.3, where Edward tells Jon he's "always been terrible at this [riddles]"; I just like to assume Jonathan knows all of the popular ones, but doesn't extend his interest any further than that. Ed's characterization is pretty good there, so take a look at the scene I'm referring to: https://canadian-riddler.tumblr.com/post/156744001689/someone-asked-scriddler-when-the-scriddler-ship 
> 
> Eager to know how you guys felt about the pair's first conversation. :-)  
> Professor Crane will continue getting more attention in the upcoming chapters. 
> 
> ____  
> Tumblr: ed-nygma  
> Instagram: Green__Problem (art)  
> Instagram: riddler.r (spam/friends, peeks of future chapters will be posted there. The account is private but I accept most friend requests)


	4. Morning Routine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Barely any patient enjoys their mornings at Arkham, and Jonathan Crane is no different. Ready to ignore last night's dispute, the ex-professor goes about his routine as usual. Everyone heard their little discussion though, and Jervis Tetch wants to ask Jon some questions.
> 
> A Jonathan-centric chapter for a change. Kind of a filler chapter too, it explains a little of Jonathan's background as a rogue and his current plans. Fans of the Mad Hatter will be happy to see him make an appearance too.... Although it's just some dialogue. Still, you'll see more of him in the future. 'Til then, have fun reading. :-)!

It had been a long, dreadful month since Jonathan Crane was first admitted into Arkham. During the first few days, whispers seeped from the mouths of staff members, hurling contemptuous remarks and other similarly vulgar comments at the man they once heeded orders from. A minority expressed bafflement, while most noted always having a funny feeling about him. Still, nobody would have guessed such a complex set of experiments was taking place right under their noses. If you wanted to keep tabs on every single person at the asylum who came off as a little creepy, you’d end up with a list too long to keep track of. Due to this, many things easily went unnoticed, and clear red flags were often dismissed.

From the moment he was caught, Crane knew he would have to deal with insolent comments about both his character and pursues. He was prepared for it, and didn’t care much for what such simpleminded oafs had to say. Even Harleen got a fair share of ridicule the first time she was institutionalized after running off with the Joker, and her case was pure tragedy; much more sympathetic than Jonathan’s. She became a psychologist at the asylum with the most well-principled purposes one could imagine, yet let herself be charmed by Gotham’s most deranged criminal. To think that, despite it all, her ex-colleagues still chose to make a mockery out of her- it really just served as evidence of the duplicity so many people hide. 

Fewer comments concerning the disgraced professor were made as time passed, all the most flaring assertions were made during the course of the first week after his capture and, subsequently, discourse grew dry. In that time, the man adjusted to the asylum’s routine without issues. He didn’t retaliate against any of the distasteful remarks and just generally kept to himself, only inciting some complaints that he didn’t cooperate with psychologists whenever they tried to get him a proper assessment. Of course, he had every intention of escaping at a future time, but he was in no rush yet. 

One thing Jonathan really liked about the asylum was the accessibility to books; entire catalogues to pick and choose from, selections from every genre. And the best part was that he actually had time to sit and read them. He didn’t have to worry about keeping jobs and using every hour of his spare time to further his research. If there was something in this world that could rival his obsession with fear, it would be his love for reading, the man was really just making the most of his situation. He finally found an opportunity to catch up with books he had been meaning to read for years, and who could blame him for that?

Not to mention that, once he finally got out, he would have to find a place to stay. Crane had nowhere to go, nobody he trusted or so much as cared for. There were plenty of abandoned buildings he in Gotham he could use as a hideout, but that was obviously not ideal on the long run. Finding someone who’d be willing to rent their place out to a rogue was probably not going to be that hard, so long as he asked the right people, but it would definitely be costly, and Jonathan was broke. Thankfully, he did have several vials of his fear toxin scattered throughout the city, carefully hidden from the public eye, so he’d just have to get a hold of some and, from there, formulate a plan to make money.

But he’d have to worry about those details some other time. Right now, he was being forced awake by an excruciatingly loud ringing noise which, although he had grown accustomed to, still made him flinch and occasionally cover his ears. The alarm bell went off 3 times in the morning, 6 AM being the first of the day. Guards were meant to check up on every patient at this hour, though usually they wouldn’t do much aside from knocking on the glass and yelling at them to wake up. If the inmate got up quickly, they would then be escorted to the dining room, but few people actually bothered to get up so early. The bell would ring again at 8 o’clock, signaling the guards to go check up on them again, and that’s when the majority of the asylum’s residents chose to leave their cells. An hour after the fact came the last chime, and if you still haven’t eaten anything by then, you’ll have to wait until lunch.

Jonathan preferred to get his food as early as possible, it was quieter then. The less people he had to be surrounded by, the better. Crowded spaces always put him on edge, it was practically impossible to settle down. Most of the other patients who chose to eat breakfast at daybreak seemed to reciprocate this feeling, as there was always a greater sense of calm in the room during this time of day than at any other point. 

With that thought in mind, the man got up and headed to the sink. For a moment, he eyed the reflection in his cell’s dirtied mirror. Dark circles accented his state of exhaustion, and the shabby glasses he wore did nothing to hide it. His disheveled hair hadn’t been touched by a brush a single time over the past month. Undeniably, he looked older than he was though, then again, that had always been the case. Crane had trouble caring for his appearance; even back during his professor days, when he was actively trying his best to look presentable, he still eavesdropped on a few conversations between his peers where his looks were ridiculed.

Jonathan knew it wasn’t just about his clothes. _Sure_ , he was never able to afford those fancy suits the other professors were so fond of showing off, nor did he want to put his savings towards clothes when he had higher priorities, but he also didn’t leave his apartment looking like a tramp. Especially not in comparison to the rags he grew up wearing when he lived with his grandmother. His whole figure just seemed to be hard on the eyes, to provoke repulsion. _He was nothing but a scarecrow_ , born to be the _master of fear_. And why, then, should he care for the way he looks? It was an inescapable fate, so he might as well embrace it

And embrace it he would, soon.

Before long he’d be back to play the role he’s meant to fulfill, back to his research and experiments. His mind just kept echoing the anticipation though, for the time being, Crane was busier pouring mouthwash into a little plastic cup, gargling it for a few seconds before spitting the minty liquid down the drain, he was fond of the slight stinging feeling it had on his mouth. Immediately after, he held up his pillow and grabbed a book from underneath it. There was a napkin sticking out in the middle, which was being used in place of a bookmark. The cover had a nice leather texture, it was an authentic early edition of one of H.G. Wells’ classics, which he found tucked away at the asylum’s library.

Ready to wait for the staff, Jonathan took a few steps forward, turning to the automated see-through door. He faced the glass just in time to catch the Riddler leaving his cell, two guards gripping his shoulders while leading the man to the elevator. For a brief second, they exchanged glances; Edward quickly furrowed his brows but continued walking, his eyes were slightly red during the ordeal. Crane was hoping the manager would take a while to give the little wretch his prescribed solution, he could really use some quiet after last night’s debacle. 

\---

Foul, rancid and nauseating were all words many people used to describe the mush Arkham patients were offered to eat. It was a little baffling how something as simple as breakfast could be defiled.

There was never any cereal or toast, only wheat cream, scrambled eggs that were always moist, juices fruit and vitamin gummies. Some days they’d have waffles or pancakes, but those were rare. When they got milk, it was usually spoiled. The food’s quality rivalled that of the average public high school meal, which in itself was worthy of a reward.

Most mornings, Jonathan ate only the fruit. He was never a big eater, so leaving left-overs didn’t bother him. Jervis Tetch took notice of that fairly quick, and began sitting next to Crane so he’d get himself the excess food. The short statured man seemed to be the only person who _enjoyed_ the asylum’s meals, which was far more perplexing than any of his delusions. His presence wasn’t terrible- he was a little too chatty at times, but he’d leave Jonathan alone as soon as he realized he was bothering him. Jervis would talk to anyone who’d listen, but he clearly didn’t have the confidence to be overbearing.

On occasion he’d even incite scientific discussions, most of which were actually rather insightful. Jonathan was quite appreciative of those, and he respected Jervis’ intellect. The man’s psychosis was not at all disabling of his cognitive reasoning, as is easy to conclude from seeing his catalogue of inventions. Most notably, his expertise in the field of mind-control. He created technology most could only imagine in fiction and, for that, Crane thought of him as a praiseworthy pundit. Plus, access to this type of technology could certainly come in handy, so he’s also a _valuable asset_. 

“What day of the month is it?” Jervis broke the silence as soon as he sat next to Jonathan, whose food was still untouched. He looked eager to talk, more than usual. 

“The 6th,” he didn’t look the man in the eye as he replied, but quickly slid him his food tray.

“The Riddler was brought back last night,” the blonde trailed off, “Makes 2 months since his escape.”

After heaving a sigh, a stern reply escaped Jonathan’s lips “I’m aware.”

“Of course you are,” Jervis held up his juice box as if he was holding a teacup, “The whole sector heard you two’s jovial little exchange.”

Upon realizing where the conversation was headed, the ex-professor’s already null desire to continue the discussion completely faded. He had no interest in revisiting last night’s events, especially after planning to get some peace this morning. But, much to his annoyance, the pretend-hatter decided to continue pushing despite noticing his sudden quietness, “Well then, what do you think?”

“Think about _what_?” Jonathan raised his head so he could meet Jervis’ gaze directly. He looked livid, and his peer grew a little antsy in his seat at he saw his expression.

“About the Riddler, of course,” he tried to regain his composure while looking away, his voice was a little quieter this time. It wasn’t unusual for him to ask new rogues about how they felt about other inmates, it was just something he liked knowing.

“I do not like him,” Jonathan asserted while digging his teeth into an apple.

“Why?” Was the immediate follow-up question.

“What do you care?” A puzzling look spread through Crane’s face as he tried deciphering Jervis’ intentions, “Are you buddies?”

“I’d say we’re on friendly terms,” that actually just meant they had talked twice, “I just figured- you’re a clever bunch, right? You might get along, is all.”

“He’s not as smart as he wants you to think,” the taller man adjusted his glasses, he didn’t want to be compared to what he believed was a con artist, “All Edward Nygma wants is to convince others he’s some great intellectual by beating them at his own games, feeling validated in the process. Just because he’s memorized a whole assortment of riddles and puzzles he thinks his mind can rival _real_ geniuses. He has no real ambitions, no set goals, he has nothing but greed.”

Jervis scratched the back of his head, “Don’t you think you might be underestimating the fellow a little?” 

“He’s a narcissist!” Crane squawked as he stabbed his apple with a plastic spoon, inadvertently breaking it in the process.

The Mad Hatter smiled widely at the remark, putting his oversized teeth in full view. His head moved from one side to the other as he looked around the room, looking at every single patient present in the cafeteria. Then, he looked back at Jonathan and laughed, “Oh, but aren’t we all?”

That question was the last straw needed to break the camel’s back, Jonathan found the mere suggestion abhorrent, “ _No_.” He angrily asserted while standing up from his seat, “I’m leaving.”

“Suit yourself,” the hatter continued giggling, “ _Master of Fear_.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Naturally, I feel the need to apologize for taking a bit too long with this one. After one of my cats pissed on my keyboard I had to go buy a new one and due to Covid regulations that took quite a bit. Really wasn't in the mood to write fanfiction on my phone, bahaha. Counting on the next chapter to be published faster though.
> 
> I wrote this chapter as a bit of a filler so you'd get a better look at my Jonathan, poor man deserves a spotlight too. Still, I hope you liked both the chapter and Jervis' little appearance (pun intended) at the end though. Similar to BTAS' Jervis (my favourite incarnation of him), my version of him also has a British accent, I feel like it adds to the character. I also like to make Jonathan not too self aware of his own narcissism, even though he can easily recognize it in other people- though he's wrong about Edward on several things, since he never really interacted with him before and has convinced himself he's not as smart as he claims to be from reading his evaluations and such.
> 
> Should also thank you all for the continued support, it really means a lot to me! The feedback keeps me motivated! >:)  
> So that's that for now, see you soon!


	5. The Chess Game

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Considering the way his day has been going, nobody should blame Jonathan for his bad mood. Hence, why he decided to sit alone reading by himself, except Two-Face has something to ask of him. Edward, obviously, wastes no time trying to eavesdrop on the conversation. So what follows is a lot more dialogue than the usual.
> 
> Some chess too, by the way.

Friendships are, understandably, not too common of a thing among rogues. When your lifestyle ties in so closely with constant criminal affairs, it’s hard to maintain healthy bonds with peers. There’s too much stress and not nearly enough trust being put into those relationships. Everyone around you is trying to be the top dog, the one who gets to quash others under their heel. Worrying about backstabbers is just common sense. Alliances are not as unheard of, of course, but it is just as easy to gain allies as it is to have them betray you.

All of this pressure inevitably creates an unspoken sense of loneliness- one which is shared by the majority of inmates at the asylum. Of course, most would refuse to acknowledge this, and others are already so used to that feeling, they can’t even imagine living separate from it.

Arkham has, in an attempt to remedy this, created social spaces where patients can interact with each other. There, events are occasionally held to help establish a sense of teamwork and trust between inmates. Sadly, these ideas work better on paper than when put into effect. Even when thrown together into the same room, most of the rogues choose not to socialize unless they _want_ something. Jonathan had an exceptionally bad case of quiescence; rarely would you see him do anything other than burying his head in a book. It wasn’t uncommon for staff to make mention of his withdrawn nature, but little was done to improve his behavior.

On days Jervis couldn’t find anyone else willing to put up with his chatter, he might convince Crane to play a few rounds of chess or checkers. The games didn’t involve a lot of communication between the two men. During busts of eccentricity, the hatter may monologue to himself, but this rarely prompted his fear-obsessed companion to reply. Jonathan was usually the one who came out victorious, but the hatter never failed to put up a good challenge.

Though, as one may be able to guess, they wouldn’t be doing that today. Tetch hit the wrong chord when talking to the ex-professor at breakfast, and he was more than aware of it. Truthfully, he didn’t want to cause any more conflict, so he’d keep a distance for the time being. And, naturally, this didn’t bother Jonathan one bit, who was quite content just sitting by himself in the corner of the room, sheltering his figure in the shadows of two book stands.

Reading on the floor was an old habit of his, something he’d been doing for all his life. One could argue it was a little weird to find a man of Dr. Crane’s height sitting on the floor like that, especially in public, but, at this point in his life, he really couldn’t care less. However, he _would_ still have preferred to take a seat at the nearby table, but Edward Nygma got there first, and Jonathan wasn’t looking forward to letting his mood get any worse. 

There was some blabbering coming from across the room; Poison Ivy was watching the news on the asylum’s low-end TV. Nothing of relevance was being talked about, so it was just useless background noise. He was able to ignore it, for the most part. The ill-tempered botanist made sure to keep track of international ecological catastrophes, any new big constructions happening around the city and also of crimes being committed by the Joker, though the latter was just so she might get a glimpse at how Harley was doing.

In spite of this, at that moment, one thing was more bothersome than the TV, and that was Harvey Dent’s unmovable gaze. Although not an audible distraction, had fixated his eyes on Jonathan for longer than would be comfortable. The disgraced attorney wasn’t particularly sociable too, he had enough company in his own mind, so it was clear there was something he was preparing to do. Though, what that might be was still a mystery.

After tolerating his stare for an excessive amount of time, Crane finally caved in, “Did nobody ever teach you it’s rude to stare?” An ironic statement, coming from a man who often pauses to analyze anyone in his path.

Harvey squinted at him, but did not respond. Instead, he looked down at his hand and then back at Jonathan, with that, he flipped his coin in one swift movement. The professor watched it spin through the air attentively, but without much interest. Half of his face was hidden behind a book, which he had every intention of going back to reading once this was dealt with. It took just an instant for the small piece of metal to find its way back to Two-Face’s hand, who stood up from his seat after giving it a quick glance.

“Crane,” the burly man approached his fellow inmate, “I have an offer.”

“Hm,” Jonathan raised an eyebrow, “Let’s hear it, shall we?”

With a quick nod, Harvey lowered himself so he could whisper to the other man, “I have formulated an escape plan. If you do assist me, I can help you get a hold of your fear toxin.”

“Interesting,” the sitting man conceded, “But I’m afraid I require more details,” the mention of his toxin did, in fact, spark some curiosity within his mind, but Crane was no idiot. Blindly accepting proposals was not something he did.

“Okay,” Dent held up his coin again, “Heads, I tell you everything. Bad heads, you get nothing. How about that?”

“Sure,” Jonathan agreed, albeit with reluctance.

As the other man's approval was declared, Harvey wasted no time before throwing his prized coin up, allowing the power of chance to embrace it. After it landed, the ex-district attorney smirked, "Lucky you," he stated, then he lowered his voice some more, "Let me lay it out for you: The Asylum hired some new guy. A real big-shot. He's the new chief of psychiatry and, well, your experiments seemed to peak his interest. Rumor is, the man got his hands on some of your vials during the initial police investigation. Keeps them in his office."

The idea of some random mindless fool getting a hold of his toxin instantly infuriated Crane, who had spent years developing his formula, "Who is he?" But his contempt only grew further once he realized that man could easily try to make a profit off of his own hard work, so he didn't wait for a response, "Is there proof of this? Where did you get this information?"

"It's not hard to bribe staff," Two-Face explained. At least it wasn't hard for _him_ to bribe them, he was one of Gotham's most well connected and powerful rogues, “Apparently the GCPD was looking for "missing evidence", some vials disappeared overnight. They asked employees if they'd seen anything, but nothing came of it. This was just after that new doctor got hired. He doesn't let anyone into his office, not even for cleaning, but some lady didn't get the memo. She went inside, saw some stuff… Got fired right away."

" _Who is he?_ ” Jonathan repeated his first question, this time making sure to highlight his impatience.

"That, I can't tell you. They all just seem to be scared of him. Too afraid to mention his name. But I know he’s their new boss.”

 _Scared of him?!_ Crane finally put his book aside. _How dare he!_ Not only was he in possession of an exceedingly invaluable toxin, but he also had complete control over the asylum’s staff. Hell, the man likely couldn’t even begin to wrap his mind around the importance of Jonathan’s experiments. There could only be one Master of Fear, “I’ve heard enough,” he groaned, “Tell me about what your plan entails, will you?”

“During one of those “fitness hours” outside, I want you to pretend to be having an emergency. Just make a scene. While everyone’s distracted, I’ll steal the skeleton key from Aaron Cash’s office. His office is on a blind spot; no cameras would see me. Then, at night I use the key to get us out of our cells, we run to the chief of psychiatry’s room. You’ll get your vials back and then we leave. If any of the guards see us, you can use the toxin.”

Jonathan gave Harvey a disconcerted look, suppressing the urge to call him insane, “Fool’s mate.”

That remark was met with confusion, “What?”

“Two-move checkmate. He means your plan will quickly come undone,” a voice suddenly interrupted, it was Edward’s. A couple of minutes had already gone by since he left his seat at the table, and he’d been listening to the discussion since then, “You’re committing an extraordinary blunder because you’re not taking into account enough variables. It lacks foresight. Simple.”

“Eavesdropping on others’ conversations, are we, Edward?” Despite the sarcastic question, the ex-professor was actually pleasantly surprised with Nygma’s little intervention, even if it clearly reeked of exhibitionism.

“ _Please_ ,” he rolled his eyes, “So Two-Face randomly walks up to you, starts whispering and you still expect me not to be intrigued?”

“That,” Crane turned back to the more robust man out of the group, “What he said about your plan. That’s what I think.”

“How so?” Harvey asked in a hoarser tone of voice. He was slightly angered by the assertion that his escape plan was too faulty to work.

“For one, how are you going to break into his office unnoticed? Aaron has been working here for longer than any other guard, he’d never leave his office unlocked. If you plan on kicking down the door or breaking one of the windows, do you really expect nobody to notice?” Jonathan criticized.

“For _two_ , he usually has the key on himself at all time. There are spare keys, but they’re locked in a safe,” the riddle obsessed rogue added, “Not to mention, I doubt old Crane here is any good at theatrics. I don’t think he’d keep the staff entertained for long.”

“You’d be surprised,” Jonathan’s expression softened.

Two-Face exhaled a growl-like noise, “If you don’t want your precious toxin back, I guess I’ll just find someone else to go through with the plan.”

“Oh,” Crane abruptly got up from the floor, “I _am_ going to get it back. I just don’t need _your_ help.”

“Be like that then,” Harvey clenched his fists with anger, “But you’ll regret it.”

After leaving Jonathan with nothing but a vague threat to chew on, he walked away. “Well,” Edward began once the other man was a safe distance away, “That sure was exciting, huh?” Nosey as he was, Ed wanted to continue delving into the topic, but, by the time the question was out of his mouth, Jonathan had already left his side. That felt adequately in character for him.

Left without anything else to do, the Riddler made his way back to his seat. For the past half an hour, he’d been solving some crappy crossword puzzles from newspaper prints. None were particularly difficult, but there weren’t many exciting alternatives. He just wished that, for once, they’d print some challenging problems. Part of him missed the days when he’d stumble across a brand new puzzle as a kid, the excitement and thrill. The _wonder_ … That rarely happened anymore. Things get so repetitive with time.

“ _Largest dolphin species_ ,” he read out loud, “Orca, of course… Now, _bit of trickery_ , 4 letters- “

But he didn’t have time to finish his brainteaser, as the sudden noise of something being dropped against the table scared him out of his trance, “Ruse.”

Edward looked up, allowing his gaze to meet the eyes of none other than Jonathan Crane himself, “ _Hey_!” He protested, “I _knew_ that.”

“I believe you,” the taller man sat opposite to Ed, resting his chin on his left hand as he continued, “Do you play?”

Jonathan slid a wooden board across the table, finally allowing the other to process what was happening. A foldable chess board.

“ _Of course I play_ ,” Edward was almost offended by the question, “I’m the _Prince of Puzzlers_.”

“Oh, _naturally_ , silly me,” Crane comforted the other man’s ego disingenuously, he didn’t want their conversation to turn sour so quickly, “When was it you started playing?”

“When I was a kid,” Ed raised an eyebrow, suspicious of his peer’s intentions, “Why?”

A half-smile creeped its way onto Jonathan’s face, “Well, I assume you’re good at it then, yes?”

“ _Yes_ ,” the other replied, slightly unsettled by the eerie sight.

“May I challenge you to a match?”

Edward smirked, “Sure,” he’d never turn down an opportunity to prove his wits, it was far too irresistible, especially when he’d been dying of boredom the whole morning. Plus, he was quite confident in his chess skills too, “But can I ask what brought on this abrupt desire?”

In truth, this was somewhat of a test. Jonathan wanted to measure Edward’s cognitive abilities and general reasoning skills. How much of his boasting was granted? How much of it was nothing but a mechanism to cope with deep-rooted insecurities? That’s what he was _really_ looking for, “No reason. Things are quite dull around here; wouldn’t you agree, Edward? I just want some friendly competition.”

“Yes,” he unfolded the board and began taking out the pieces, “Blacks or whites?”

“I’d like to play black,” the other man established.

Ed laughed, “Giving me an advantage, are you?”

“Maybe,” Crane wasn’t so sure about that, “We’ll see.”

“I don’t need it,” he asserted, but handed the other his desired set nonetheless.

“Of course you don’t,” the once-physician reassured, “It’s just my preference.”

“Sure,” Edward began placing his pieces down on the board, not entertaining the topic any further.

“Have you ever played in a competition?” Jonathan made sure to start organizing his own set. A seemingly mundane task, yet Ed was quick notice that the way he grabbed the pieces was a little strange; he gripped them by the head using his thumb and index fingers, somewhat resembling the hook of a claw machine. 

“None of the big ones. It gets boring after a while, chess is too predictable,” his eyes had fixated their gaze on the other man’s hands, “What do you call a machine with a doctorate in psychology?”

This new riddle was met with visible lack of enthusiasm on the professor’s behalf, so Edward immediately provided him with the answer, “A _skill crane_. Get it?”

Jonathan had to pause for a second. That question briefly stupefied him, but realization struck once he looked down at his hand and saw the way he was holding onto one of the pawns, “Ah, funny,” no hint of amusement could be picked up from his voice, “Did you come up with that one on spot?”

“Yes, as it so happens,” the Riddler finally stopped staring at his peer’s fingers, “You have a fitting name.”

“ _Great_ ,” what a terrible turn this conversation took, “Anyway, you may start.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are picking up!!! How exciting, it was about time I stopped with the filler. Edward is back too, and he's ready to annoy the shit out of Jon.  
> God, I had a lot of fun writing the last scene- hope you guys liked it too. Always a fan of coming up with some terrible riddles.
> 
> Might just go ahead and thank you guys again for the support, I know it gets corny, but it genuinely means a lot to me so I feel the need to continue mentioning it. Even though I'm mainly writing this fic for my own entertainment, knowing other people are enjoying it is just GREAT, so yeah. <3


	6. A Strange Doctor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Never put two egomaniacs playing chess against each other, things won't be pretty. Especially when one of them just so happens to be the self-entitled "Prince of Puzzlers." Rather dialogue-heavy chapter, mainly circling around the chess game, but with a bit of a cliff-hanger at the end. Delves a little into Edward's backstory too. So, enjoy!

Edward’s first move was none other than the King’s Pawn Opening. It amused Jonathan to see him starting the game with the most foreseeable move of all, considering this was right after he complained about chess being too predictable. Then again, it was also the most reasonable way to start a game, practically the standard. After all, safety beats extravagance.

Without any hesitation, Crane copied his opponent’s move, ensuring the stronghold for himself too. A formulaic response, unremarkable in every sense. If he wanted, he could have pulled something more interesting, but he was curious to know how long the Riddler could go without making some haste decision out of impatience. The man would likely underestimate Jonathan’s grasp of the game, which, given a proper opportunity, could lead to his downfall.

And it didn’t take long until Edward chose to be a little less clichéd, “The Vienna Game,” smiled Crane, “Why, how _unorthodox_.”

Such a remark was quite odd, making the other man raise an eyebrow in response. The Vienna is not a very common choice, especially among experienced players, though it is still a rather sound opening. Most would, at this point, have gone for Ruy Lopez or the Italian Game, as those provide the white pieces with a greater advantage, but Edward was putting out feelers, “I’d hardly call it that.”

Although it wasn’t the most standard Opening choice, calling it ‘unorthodox’ felt immoderate. Truth was, Jonathan was trying to force a conversation. Hearing his opponents articulate their thoughts gave him a better sense of what’s to come. Humans are easy to predict once you learn to read their tones and movements, even the little details in one’s expression can communicate plenty of useful information, “Not the most typical response, yes?” he moved his Bishop to c5, “Are you, perhaps, underestimating me?”

Crane’s move was arguably far more offbeat than Edward’s choice of opening, “You’re the one who’s underestimating me,” his voice ceded a hint of tension. By this point, it had already become clear he was being analyzed, and being a test subject to the Scarecrow was not among his intents, “You do not understand me as well as you think you do.”

“Oh?” the ex-professor watched as his contender place his Knight on a4, “Interesting move, Edward, though perhaps a little questionable.”

In response, Jonathan used his Bishop to take one of the other man’s Pawns, leaving him at check. This forced Edward’s King to eat the Bishop. One might say that was a warning, “I’m not going to lose.”

“Is that so?” he moved his Queen to h4, putting the white King at check again, “ _Prove it_.”

There was a clear sense of agitation growing within Edward. He really hadn’t taken Jonathan as seriously as he should, but he was not letting himself go down. Tough challenges always put him under a great deal of stress; they could make him vulnerable to his insecurities, make him doubtful and frustrated, and that usually led him down a path of impulsive decisions. However, it was tough challenges that also gave him the most gratification. These problems were the ones he both _feared_ and _craved_ the most.

Without hesitation, Edward moved his King to e3. Moving the King to either of the alternative two squares would have been a blunter, costing his Queen. As should be expected, the black Queen tailed the opposing King by moving to f4, resulting in another check, “I have noticed you’ve gone quiet,” spoke Jonathan with a smile, “Is this a humbling experience?”

“Maybe if you’d let me _focus_ ,” complained the other rogue while moving his King to d3. He bit his thumb as he did so, a tic he often indulged when tense or in need of concentration, “What’s it to you anyway? Awful lot of chatting for someone who asked me if I ‘ever shut up’ just last night.”

Jonathan stopped pursuing the King and instead moved a Pawn to d5, “I’m trying to prove something.”

“And what might that be?” the white King jumped a square to the left. Edward locked eyes with the other man, thoroughly unamused.

In a swift move, the black Queen ate the white Pawn at the middle of the board, “That you’re not as spectacularly cunning as you make yourself out to be,” seeing the man’s immediate affronted look prompted Crane to continue, “You’re clever, sure. But you elevate your mind to a position it is simply _unworthy_ of. You are no genius. For all your potential you lack discipline and ambition. The only things you commit to are feeble and useless. Your priorities are a mess.”

“ _Feeble and useless_?! Well, what makes your ambitions so much better than mine?” Edward’s King moved left again. The piece sat diagonally to his Knight, protecting it from the black Queen, “Throwing away a successful career to pursue a fixation on fear doesn’t sound as prudent as you’d like to believe.”

“But that’s where you’re wrong, Edward,” before continuing, Jonathan introduced one of the black Knights to the field, placing it in a6, “You see, _I am a man of_ _science_. I devote myself to causes which will benefit society and education. Understanding how fear works, how it effectively hinders progress and obstructs quotidian affairs, is essential to our betterment. To maximize one’s prospects, we must reach into that person’s core and pluck out the root of their anxieties. When you disburden your mind of irrational emotion, then you’ll truly be free.”

Distracted by the rambling, the other rogue moved a Pawn to a3, hoping to protect his King in a2 as soon as possible. This, however, was not at all a wise decision; he should have instead moved a Pawn to d4, but he’d been caught so off guard by the conversation he barely noticed, “I take great interest in science too- how could I not? It is the foundation of all puzzling. So many of my schemes rely on scientific knowledge, it is indispensable for me,” the man adopted a thinking position with his hand, “And I became a _rogue_ because I wanted to improve this city myself. Everywhere you look there’s corruption and deadbeats. As soon as I defeat Batman, I’ll finally get the chance to reform Gotham. I’ll cultivate the population’s culture and intellect.”

“You became a rogue because you wanted to feel validated. Science may be indispensable to some of your schemes, but you are not qualified to apply the knowledge you use. Be honest, you don’t actually care to improve this city at all, do you? You just want to feel seen; you want to make a difference because, deep down, you believe that will relieve you of your self-doubt,” in a dazzling move, Jonathan took Edward’s Knight with the Queen, grinning as he witnessed the other’s shock, “This is what you get when you abandon fear. No more indecisiveness holding you down.”

“You scarified your Queen?!” Edward practically jumped out of his chair. He was in a state of complete uproar, “So early on?! And you still have the gall to tell me _my_ priorities are a mess? Play the game right!”

“The only game being played here is _you_ , Edward,” there was something absolutely frightening about his laugh, “Most players would have hesitated to do that, all because of fear… But it is actually a perfectly reasonable move. You have no chance of winning.”

“ _Shut up_ ,” he hurled back after capturing Jonathan’s Queen, brows furrowed as he spoke, “You’re mistaken.”

“Tell me, Edward,” he reached for his knight and placed it in c5, “How many times has your King been at check already?”

“Five,” a sense of desolation could be felt as he announced the number, the disadvantaged man kept his eyes on the board now, dreading the idea of looking Crane in the eyes at the moment. In spite of this, he persisted, and moved his white King a square to the right.

“Rash decisions are born out of fear; panic is not logical. Isn’t your impulsivity something that frustrates you? It makes you feel like you’re losing control. Now imagine no longer feeling the need to fixate on the way others perceive you, free to live your own life in the company of your unapologetic individuality,” his Knight moves to e7, a very threatening move, “See, the thing about chess is that you can’t blame anyone but yourself for the outcome. After all, you _are_ in control.”

Moving the Bishop to b5 felt very tempting, and seemed to be the best decision too. It would leave the black King at check, and prevent Check Mate. After being checked 5 times, Edward was desperate to check the opposing King at least once; he just _needed_ to feel in charge again. However, Jonathan’s Knight revealed the man’s later intentions. If he played into his trap the game would, at best, end in a draw, “You’re right about one thing,” Edward moved the white Queen to g4, “I _am_ in control. And I won’t be falling for your _stupid_ tricks.”

He still felt humiliated over having walked into the GCPD’s ambush, and he wasn’t going to allow more shame to seep into his psyche.

The bold move was met with Jonathan’s widest grin, “Brilliant!” as his Bishop took the white Queen, he couldn’t hide his awe, “Oh, Edward, I expected you to get _greedy_ , but how you’ve surprised me. Perhaps there really is more between those ears than I’ve given you credit for,” the game had finally become exciting. Few people would have had enough foresight to predict Crane’s ploy.

An odd sense of validation ensured as Edward received the other man’s praise. It was very abrupt, and caught him off guard; people would usually lash out once he outsmarted them, so being complimented definitely felt reassuring. Sacrificing his Queen had ultimately allowed him dominance on the board again, “Now _you_ tell me,” his Bishop moved to b5, checking Jonathan’s King for the first time in the game. ‘Ecstatic’ fails to capture just how thrilled both men felt, “What word if pronounced right is wrong, but if pronounced wrong is right?”

Being forced to move the black King, Jonathan chose to place it at d8, “That will be ‘wrong’, yes?” the riddle posed was one the man was already familiar with, a classic.

“Yes,” Edward moved his Bishop to c6, “You are wrong about me. The things you said before, they were absurd.”

Accepting to engage, the other rogue took the Bishop with the remaining black Knight, “I disagree,” though now he was starting to consider the possibility that he may need to reevaluate some of his presumptions, “Perhaps you just can’t see it for yourself.”

Both of them had relevant points that were being dismissed, but neither party was willing to acknowledge them. The pair was so absorbed into their own self-preservation that they weren’t open to clashing beliefs, “Or, perhaps, you really are just incorrect,” the white King ate the black Pawn that was to its right, “Have you considered that?”

One of the black Rooks moved to e8, impeding the white King from taking another one of the opposing Pawns, “Who taught you to play?” Jonathan suddenly decided to focus on the other’s history with the game, rather than developing the subject.

“I did,” Edward reflected back on his childhood. He was alone for most of it, with nobody to count on but his own mind. Most of his free time was spent desperately seeking things that would make him feel stimulated and fulfilled. Some comfort was found in puzzles, riddles and other such things, and he’d found that he could use these to draw attention to himself, briefly providing him with a way to cope with the agonizing loneliness that lurked within his heart. Much like his other interests, nobody in his family knew a thing about chess, so he only learned what the game entailed at school, where he found out about its chess club. For days, he observed them, growing more intrigued with each passing game. Part of him became convinced he’d finally make friends in an environment of people like that, who he assumed would be able to relate to him, “No one’s ever taught me anything about chess. I watched other people play, then read up on it. Booby Fischer’s books were great introductions, even though the guy was a dipshit. I got my hands on a board and played solo until I was prepared to face competition. This was all in a relatively short period of time.”

But he had been wrong about the club. He never lost a game after he joined, but the attention he garnered was not positive in the slightest. The other kids grew resentful; they had been practicing for years only for a novice to quickly dethrone them. Some of them learned to play chess when they were as young as 6, and so, Edward’s triumphs felt unmerited. It also didn’t help that every time he won, he couldn’t live down the match. He was paranoid people would forget about his achievements if he didn’t constantly boast about them- or worse, that they’d forget about _him_. There was an intense need to control how other people saw him, their impression of young Edward Nygma needed to be a perfect reflection of what the boy wanted. In truth, he never intended to make others feel inferior by placing himself above them, he simply wanted to be recognized.

Nonetheless, perceived immodesty and arrogance aren’t traits most people welcome. He’d already grown a reputation around the school for being very easy to mess with. Few students had skin as thin as his; any little amount of teasing was enough to get a reaction out of him. Sometimes it was anger, sometimes it was tears. Being aware of this, the members of the club conspired to get him kicked out, knowing he’d be too scared to go back. They told the club teacher Edward had been cheating during matches, playing illegal moves whenever others were distracted. The teacher didn’t fully believe their claims; it was highly unlikely that an entire group of skilled boys would repeatedly fail to notice a beginner’s cheating, but, after receiving complaints from practically every member, he ultimately chose to follow through with their request to remove Nygma from the club.

After he was made aware of it, the boy begged him to reconsider the decision, swearing he wasn’t a cheat. The man told him there was nothing he could do about his situation, explaining that, although he did find it odd, there were simply too many complains for him to ignore. That day, Edward’s heart sank. He spent the rest of his afternoon clutching a pillow, quietly crying. It felt like there was something wrong with him, but he just couldn’t figure out what. _There was nothing wrong with him_ , he began to convince himself, _it was just everyone else_. His father never did find out why he left the club, incorrectly assuming Edward had given up after figuring he wasn’t smart enough for it. Albeit a bothersome assumption, it was preferable to the alternative, since Ed dreaded the tormenting that he would have to endure if the man ever found out about the cheating allegations. 

“Edward?” Jonathan called out for the other rogue, who seemed lost in thought, “You haven’t made your move yet. What’s busying your mind?”

Flustered, he moved a pawn up to b3, “Nothing that should concern this conversation,” a funny way of wording it. The majority of people would have left it at ‘nothing.’

The black Knight trotted to d4, one square behind Edward’s King, “I was only introduced to chess in my senior year of high school,” it was unusual for Jonathan to share details about his past, but he believed that could ease the other into conversation, “Never had an incentive to learn how to play until my school held a competition. The winning prize was money, a rare occurrence where I lived. Since I wanted to buy myself new books, I signed up for the event. After days of studying at the library, I found myself absorbed in the game. Once the tournament was held, I came out in first place and, since then, have been playing whenever opportunity surges,” all in all, he considered himself a latecomer to the game.

Following the black Knight’s move, the remaining white Bishop moved to b2, “I mostly play online nowadays,” he cared little for the other’s story, but figured he should continue the discussion.

“I don’t like playing against computers,” Crane asserted as his Knight ate the white Pawn at c2. Half of the fun in chess came from observing your opponent, studying their bodies and finding a way into their heads. That’s not something you can do with machines.

“It’s not just computers,” he moved his King to e4, “You can play against other people through servers.”

Jonathan squinted his eyes, technology in general didn’t interest him unless it could actively help him further his research into fear, “That just doesn’t sound very fun to me,” he admitted while moving the black Rook to e8.

Time came for the white Rook to move too, this one heading to f1, “It feels practically the same to playing on a physical board,” at least to him it did. 

“Is that so?” Jonathan proceeded to move his Bishop to f5 while smiling, putting Edward’s King at check. The move, however, was the opposite of a wise call.

“Ugh,” groaned the man before countering the attack by taking out the hostile piece with his Rook, “That was such a stupid move, _you_ _know_ it was. Why the hell would you do that?”

He moved a Pawn to f6, “See, it’s those types of reactions that you really can’t get from a virtual match,” the other rogue looked genuinely upset, almost as if he felt offended by Crane’s impractical threat. The expression felt very comic, “A computer wouldn’t whine at me for doing that.”

“I’m not _whining_ ,” the white Knight moved to e2 while Edward protested, “But the least you could do is take this game _seriously_.”

A black Pawn moved to g6, “Do you feel disrespected when people don’t take you seriously?” Jonathan continued to drill after the other’s insecurities, wanting to understand them better, “Does it _scare_ you? The idea of having your efforts be dismissed and laughed at? Is that something you’re _afraid_ of?”

It _did_ scare him, “Why do you keep trying to turn this into a goddamn psychological assessment?” he retreated his Rook back to f1, feeling vulnerable in more than just once sense, “What are you even trying to achieve?”

Jonathan moved the King to d7, “A simple prognostic,” he read through his treatment files before; he had actually read most documents pertaining to the criminally insane patients at Arkham. Most doctors who tried to treat the Riddler came out empty-handed. He could predict most of their tricks and techniques, as well as being a general pain to deal with. Some facets of his character were very obvious, but he continually refused to let anyone to get close to the source of his instability, “Just trying to confirm some suspicions.”

C1 was where Edward’s Rook moved to next, away from the action, “I don’t care about your suspicions, I already told you: you’re wrong about me.”

From that point on, the discussion became very cyclical. It developed a pattern of sorts; Jonathan would provoke his opponent, which lead to a fiery reaction each and every time. After getting a reaction, the ex-physician needled into Edward’s personal issues and deep-seated worries, inquiring him relentlessly. Nonetheless, the man continued to avert the questions with impertinent remarks that didn’t bother Jonathan in the least. This continued throughout the rest of the game, which ended with a white Rook and a white Knight cornering the black King, ensuring Edward’s victory.

It had been a tiring match, but also objectively a fascinating one. To Jonathan, his loss was far from a defeat. He too came out triumphant, since his objective from the start was to observe the rogue. Not to mention it had been a long time since a game of chess posed such a challenge. However, if they ever played another round, he wouldn’t go so easy on Edward, and he was sure the man would do the same now that he knew Jonathan could actually put up a fight.

There was a wide smile on the winner’s face, who was quite relieved he won, considering that, at some points, he wasn’t so sure what the outcome would be. Sadly, that smile wasn’t going to stay there for long, as two guards presented themselves before Edward and informed him that he had a scheduled appointment, they were there to escort him.

This mystery appointment led him down a hallway on the second floor, at the end of which was a large door with a polished plate on the side, clearly having been placed there recently. The name there inscribed read, “DR. HUGO STRANGE.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, so, I initially modeled these two's game after the 'Immortal Draw,' which is a famous chess match played by Carl Hamppe and Philipp Meitner; I wanted Edward and Jon's game to end in a match, a (small) majority of chess games between Grandmasters ends in draws because they're often both very accustomed to the game, and so I thought that would be appropriate. Problem was, the match was too short, so I improvised a little with my own moves. Problem number two, however, was that it then turned out too long and I was both getting bored and feeling like the excitement in the scene was growing dry, so I still cut it short (though I have a little sheet that includes the full game), I'm a little disappointed I didn't find the will to fit it all in, but I still tried to do the best with what I had. Other than that, I'm proud of how this one came out. I know it took me a while to get it out, but maybe I should try to accept a bigger spacing as it helps me get better content out. 
> 
> Now, on a different note, I'm writing a separate 2 chapter Scriddler angst fic. That one will be pretty different form this, just dipping my toes into something new. Maybe it'll be ready within this month, it's about 50% done. Either way, I think it's coming along relatively well.
> 
> Not going to keep rambling, thank you for your time and support! Tell me how you felt about the two's little wits challenge!


End file.
